Sunday, December 30, 2012

At what point does an apple turn dangerous? We all know an
apple a day keeps the doctor away, but what about an apple fritter? The
cinnamon is fine, even a little flour is okay, but how much oil and sugar does
it take to turn the nutritious into a dieter’s nightmare?

I’m thinking about fritters, because I’m thinking of how
easily something that seems like a productive use of my time can turn into
frittering. One of my New Year’s resolutions is different from years past. I
want to work the same hours as my husband, not because he is such a paragon of
virtue, mind you, but because we’re yoked together and quite honestly, often I
feel I’m not pulling my weight. I know that in our long marriage there have
been years of diaper changing, vomit cleaning, and
peanut butter sandwiches that beat out his power lunches, golf boondoggles, and
hotel stays, but now that my children are mostly grown I’m faced with the
question—what do I do all day?

I have been given this one life and I want it to be
meaningfully spent. My husband often spends twelve (or more) hours a day
working—but I can’t spend 12 hours a day writing. It’s physically exhausting
(although that should be mitigated by my brand new chair—thank you, Santa) and
way too much in my head. I’m excited to start this year with my writer’s widget
(see an earlier post) where I track my tries and hours spent with my stories.
But my work is more than story telling…

Laundry definitely counts as work, but what about
looking on Pinterest for ways to organize my laundry room? How about ironing
while watching the news? And reading—is that research? Is Facebook marketing?
How about the kindleboards? And what about church service? When does visiting
teaching turn into lunch with friends? If I laugh too much at my writers’ group
have I tipped the scale from writing to wastefulness?

In our ancestors days if you didn’t work you didn’t eat,
if you didn’t scrounge for fuel and strike a spark you might freeze, and if you
didn’t build a roof you would get wet. Those days are gone. If I don’t work, no
one really cares. In fact, if I don’t eat I’m confident that a large group of
angry, noisy people would yell at me and hook me up to tubes to keep me alive--not that I'm willing to try it--remember the people who surround me can be angry and loud.
I am loved and incredibly spoiled.

Meaning that if I want be the apple and not the apple
fritter, it’s up to me—and no one else—to cut out the fat and sugar…making this
year’s resolution not so different, after all.

Apple
Fritters

1 quart vegetable oil for deep-frying

1 1/2 cups
all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon white
sugar

2 teaspoons baking
powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

2/3 cup milk

2 eggs, beaten

1 tablespoon
vegetable oil

3 cups apples -
peeled, cored and chopped

1 cup cinnamon sugar

Heat the oil in a deep-fryer or electric skillet to 375
degrees F (190 degrees C).

In a large bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, baking
powder and salt. Pour in the milk, eggs and oil and stir until well blended.
Mix in apples until they are evenly distributed.

Drop spoonfuls of the batter into the hot oil and fry until
golden on both sides, about 5 minutes depending on the size. Fry in smaller
batches so they are not crowded. Remove from the hot oil using a slotted spoon
and drain briefly on paper towels. Toss with cinnamon sugar while still warm.

(from allrecipes.com)

The Law of the
Harvest: As a Man Sows, So Shall He Reap

…Every secret
is told, every crime is punished, every virtue rewarded, every wrong redressed,
in silence and certainty…Every act rewards itself, or in other words
inte­grates itself, in a twofold manner, first in the thing, or in real nature;
and secondly in the circumstance, or in apparent nature. Man calls the
circumstance, the retribution. The casual retribution is in the thing and is
seen by the soul. The retribution in the circumstance is seen by the
understanding; it is inseparable from the thing, but is often spread over a
long time and so does not become distinct until after many years. The specific
stripes may follow late after the offence, but they follow because they
accompany it….

Saturday, December 22, 2012

I was
inspired by my friend, Brittany, and her post at My Life Herding Cats. http://mylifeherdingcats.blogspot.com/
But since I have presents to wrap, goodies to bake, and don’t want to take the
time to list my favorites (or not so favorites) I’m posting a few. (You can click on the links) Merry
Christmas—two of my very favorite words.

Sunday, December 16, 2012

“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It's a way of understanding it.”―Lloyd Alexander

Date

Time

Writing/Editing

Time

Marketing

Costs

Sales

In an effort
to understand why some days I sell books and some days I don’t, I’ve created a
widget. I know it can’t answer all of my questions, but my goal is track my
tries… so I don’t feel like I’m wasting time. I know I can’t control the who,
whys and wheres of my book sales, but I can account for my time, money, and
words. Hence the widget.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

I will be reading this tonight at my writer's group holiday party. It's loosely based on a true experience I had with a trio of deer in California, not Argentina.

I
found my camera in the bag beneath Hermana Leon’s bed. I thought about shaking
her awake…shaking her until her head eyes rolled back in her head and her teeth
rattled out of her mouth, but instead I chose a lesser sin. I stripped off my
missionary plain skirt and white blouse. I left my garments and bra on the
floor and put on my running clothes.

My conscience and my belly rolled as I ran down the near empty
street. Over the past six months I had grown used to my empty belly. I knew Hermana
Hernandez, the elderly momacita from our ward we hired to prepare our meals
used only a fraction of the money we gave her to feed us and kept the rest for
her own family. The mission president had warned me of this. He had also warned
me of staying with my companion twenty four hours a day; leaving my companion
was a clear and flagrant disregard of the mission rules. And stupid.

But I ignored my aching conscience and the niggling warning in
my head, tucked my blonde hair under my hat, and headed for the canyon.
Christmas morning and the town slept. A dog the color of mud loped beside me
for half a block, but abandoned me at the butcher shop. The bright paper and
tin holiday decorations flew in the hot Argentine sky.

Briefly, I thought of home and the shining lights reflecting off
the snow. I thought of caroling with my family in the neighborhood where I had
always lived…until now. Looking at Trujillo’s worn and dusty buildings and
cracked sidewalks I compared the school where Hermana Leon and I taught to
Lincoln Elementary, where I had gone to school. Lincoln had murals of nursery
rhymes painted on the walls and always smelled of ammonia mixed with whatever
the cafeteria happened to be serving that day—pizza, spaghetti, or a concoction
of corn chips and cheese the staff called strawhats. The Trujillo school where
I taught with Sister Leon smelled of urine, hundreds of unwashed bodies and
shit.

Church bells tolled over the town square and my pricking
conscience led me inside the churchl. I sat on the back row, my long lanky
body, pale skin and fair hair as out of place as my sneakers, shorts and tank
top. I took off my hat and let the choir’s music carry me away. Closing my eyes
I imagined myself at home. I saw my brothers and sisters opening presents.
Cameras, iPods, the latest video games. I tried to focus on past holidays
because I knew that just as this Christmas was for me unlike any other every,
the holidays going forward would also be different.

My sister Ashley had married last May, splintering our family
and adding a brother-in-law. I had attended her wedding weeks before entering
the Missionary training center. “It’s so exciting that we’re both starting a
new adventure,” she had said. I didn’t say it, but I knew that her mission
would last for eternity, while mine was only 18 months. Last week Ashley had
sent me the pictures of her new home. Five thousand square feet. An English
tudor standing in the hot California desert, rafter to rafter with a Taj Mahal
fright on one side and a brick colonial on the other.

A young man carrying a backpack slipped onto the pew across the
aisle as the choir settled into their seats and the priest took the podium.

“Let us consider the
Lord’s parable of the rich fool taken from Saint Luke 12:16-21,” the priest
said.

No.
We should be reading the account of the Savior’s birth found in Luke. Why
consider the rich fool?

But
the priest continued, “‘The ground of a certain rich man brought forth
plentifully: And he thought within himself, saying, What shall I do, because I
have no room where to bestow my fruits? And he said, This will I do: I will
pull down my barns, and build greater; and there will I bestow all my fruits
and my goods.

Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take
thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry. But God said unto him, Thou fool, this
night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be,
which thou hast provided? So is he that layeth up treasure for himself, and is
not rich toward God.’

“A reoccurring theme of our Lord and Savior is not only the admonition against
greed and covetousness. His warning is sound, ‘Take heed and beware, for a
man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he
possesseth.’ To covet is to desire what belongs to another.”

Covet, the sin immediately following lying. I shifted on the
pew.

“In this parable, the rich fool takes pleasure and pride in hoarding his own
property,” the priest explained. “He expands and multiplies, these are his
solutions, the answers to his excess.”

I thought of our bishop at home. The gospel of Jesus Christ is
the answer to all world’s problems, he had said. And I had believed him. As complex
as the nightmares of the world’s ills, the answer is simple as the golden rule.
If every single person treated others as they would wish to be treated, the
world would live in peace. No wars. No hunger.

My belly rolled.

“Who is to say what is enough?” the priest asked. “When
are our needs met? Surely each of us struggle with our own expectations and
temptations. God will not condemn us for our industry, for improving upon our
talents, magnifying our gifts. Although, he will hold us accountable for our
generosity, or lack thereof.”

His message seemed incongruent to the holiday. Disappointed, I
thought of leaving. Not just the chapel, but Argentina. I wouldn’t be missed.
Another sister could take my place at the school. The work would continue. I
wasn’t needed. My camera and most of my money had already been taken.

A stained glass window depicted the Lord and a following of His
sheep. Beyond the glass I saw the filthy streets. I knew the gangs of
unemployed and bored youth that wandered these streets, looking for a fight and
something to steal. Before I started wearing hats, they would call, “Rubia!
Rubia!” whenever I passed too close. I feared them, but I didn’t blame them for
their anger. For an Argentine youth a bright future was as promising as the Santa
piñatas hanging by threads from the electrical poles.

“The Lord tells us our
days are numbered,” the priest droned. “If
we pass through this life in merriment there will surely come a time when
sacred matters, once ignored and procrastinated will confront us. The questions
how have I spent my life, how have I used my gifts, and is the world a kinder
place because of my service will be asked. Our Savior has gone to prepare your
mansion, are you deserving of the mansion waiting for you?”

My sister and her new husband had bought what anyone would call
a mansion. Were they more deserving than Argentinians in this chapel? I glanced
at the young man across the aisle. Tears streamed down his face. Why? Was he
finding this sermon spiritually uplifting, because I wasn’t. Why wasn’t the priest
talking about the holy family? What about the shepherds? What about the guiding
heavenly star?

I stood and slipped out the wide doors. After shoving my hair back
under my hat, I started running. I missed my iPod. I missed my dog. I wanted my
mom.

Soon, I was at the edge of town where the roads turned to dirt
and streams filled with sewage and litter cut through the field. Houses built
of lumber scraps and twisted wire baked in the early sun. The light glinted off
the tin roofs. I knew families of five, seven and even ten lived in the hovels
smaller than my sister’s new master bedroom.

I ran harder, imagining myself running all the way to Washington.
The grass slapped at my legs as I pushed myself. In the distance I saw three deer.
They wandered directly parallel to my path. I ran further and they matched my
pace, keeping beside me, like guardians.

I’m going home now, I told the deer, not sure of what home
meant. My parent’s house? My school dorm? The room I shared with Sister Leon?
The deer didn’t look my way, they seemed to take no notice of me at all, but
when I turned back to town, they followed. They kept me company for some time
before turning and running directly across my path so closely if I had reached
out my hand I would have touched them. If I hadn’t stopped, they would have
trampled me. I watched them leave, their white tails disappearing into the distant
woods.

A scripture came to mind. “Surely goodness and mercy shall
follow me all the days of my life.”

When I got home, l glanced at Sister Leon still sleeping on her
bed. Her long dark hair fell over her acne pocked face. I wondered where her
life would take her and what lessons she would learn.

I wondered what lesson I had learned. I felt as if the deer had
something more to say to me, so I sat down on my bed, picked up my bible and
looked for scripture and found it in Psalms 23:6 “Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the
Lord forever.”

Slowly I stripped off my running clothes, picked up my discarded
missionary clothes and put them back on, knowing that as long as I walked close
to God, Shirley, Goodness and Mercy would follow me where ever I happened to
be. Where ever I happened to live. Whatever I chose to do.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

I decided I was an adult the day I put my hand down a
garbage disposal and rooted through rotting food to find the gunk that was
clogging the disposal. This was long before changing poopy diapers was common
place. This was before I had a dog, or a lawn with visiting rodents, or dying
pets, or tomato plants with visiting tomato worms. Being a grown up, I decided
on that long ago day, was doing what needed to be done regardless of the smell
or ick-factor.

Many years later I
learned that being a grown up is also learning when things need to be left
undone. Sometimes some things need to be left on the side of the road and
abandoned. Sometimes this is harder than putting your hand down a clogged
garbage disposal.

There’s a line in a song by the Barenaked Ladies that goes like
this,

“If there's someone you can live

Without,

Then do so.

And if there's someone you can

Just shove out,

Then do so.”

And maybe the person you need to leave behind isn’t bad, or
evil in anyway, maybe the problem is you (or me.) Maybe when you’re with this
person you end up saying or doing things that you later regret. Maybe they make
you think thoughts that are “too expensive to ever keep.” (That’s a U2 line, because I seem to be
thinking in lyrics today.)

And maybe you really love and admire this person, because
this is a good person, it’s just that when you are with them…you’re not so
good. So you set up boundaries. You plan escape clauses. Until you just have to
say, something about this relationship isn’t working. Can I fix it? Can I
change the something about me? Because heaven knows you can’t change anyone
other than yourself. Will changing the venue, the circumstances, or the time of
day make a difference? Until finally, you walk away.

Because you just don’t want to be the person you become when
you walk into that person’s company.

When you look at the worldWhat is it that you seePeople find all kinds of thingsThat bring them to their knees

I see an expressionSo clear and so trueThat it changes the atmosphereWhen you walk (in)to the room

So I try to be like youTry to feel it like you doBut without you it's no useI can't see what you seeWhen I look at the world

When the night is someone else'sAnd you're trying to get some sleepWhen your thoughts are too expensiveTo ever want to keep

When there's all kinds of chaosAnd everyone is walking lameYou don't even blink now do youOr even look away

So I try to be like youTry to feel it like you doBut without you it's no useI can't see what you seeWhen I look at the world

I can't wait any longerI can't wait 'til I'm strongerCan't wait any longerTo see what you seeWhen I look at the world

I'm in the waiting roomI can't see for the smokeI think of you and your holy bookWhen the rest of us choke